


Bad Medicine

by caliecat



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-06
Updated: 2011-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:40:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caliecat/pseuds/caliecat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny finds a cure in the most unexpected place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Medicine

"Please, Mr. Williams, you have to relax."

Relax. As if. Because nothing says relax like having a needle shoved into your shoulder and twisted around until it hits just the right—

"Fuck!" He levitates off the bed as the pain flares white-hot.

The doctor shifts her grip and rotates his arm in a direction it most definitely doesn't want to go. "When you pulled back the needle came out of position. I'll have to go in again. Don't move this time." He hears the edge of frustration in her calm voice as this so-called short procedure ("fifteen minutes, in and out, tops") stretches into an eternity.

"Sorry, I couldn't help it, I'm trying." And he is, he really is, gritting his teeth with the effort, sweat trickling down the back of the thin cotton gown, desperately trying to hold still but his arm is twitching of its own accord and after all isn't it a perfectly natural reflex to jerk away from—

"Ow!"

"Hang on, we're almost there," she says with that fake cheer doctors use with difficult patients. "Just another few minutes." She murmurs something to her assistant, then the soft hand of the young female tech—Keira? Kaitlin?—curls over his and pushes down, firmly pinning his arm in place and he's almost embarrassed to accept the comfort but does anyway, turning his head toward the wall in a vain attempt to ignore whatever crazy shit they're doing at his side.

So much for the two Valium he took before this started, he might as well have eaten candy instead for all the good they're doing. Steve had smirked in his face when Danny asked for a ride since he wouldn't be able to drive while sedated.

"Valium? Have they met you? Maybe an elephant tranquilizer would take the edge off, but Valium? No way." And damn if he isn't right.

Stupid McGarrett.

It's his fault that Danny's stuck in this medieval torture chamber getting a arteriograph... arthropod... artesian... whatever the hell it's called and maybe he's a bit fuzzy now but not nearly enough. Only full unconsciousness would be acceptable at this point and that's not on the horizon.

First his knee and now this. All because his idiot partner can't understand normal human limits and thinks it's perfectly okay to run down suspects by leaping across rooftops like Batman. He tunes out the memory of that unfortunate decision and instead pictures Grace's smiling face, willing himself into immobility. More excruciating moments pass until finally the doctor announces "All done!", sounding as relieved as Danny feels, and step one of today's fun adventure is complete.

After he receives brief instructions for home care and a brisk "You did great!" (but Danny knows a lie when he hears one), Keira-Kaitlin guides him into a wheelchair, pushes him out the door, down the hall under the glaring fluorescent lights and onto the elevator, parking him between a man with a painful-looking metal contraption actually poking out of his arm in two places and a pair of orderlies cheerfully chatting about where to have lunch ("Oh man, their _loco moko_ with extra gravy is amazing!"). The car reeks of that sickly antiseptic smell unique to hospitals and combined with the thought of food it nearly turns his stomach.

Not soon enough the doors slide open to the basement and he's rolling into the MRI room. After another round of bland warnings ("...could cause serious injury _blah blah blah_ or death in rare cases...") he's positioned on a narrow bed, his arm strapped down and a pair of headphones slapped over his head and then he's sliding backward into a cramped metal tube like some demented voyager in a bad Sci-Fi movie.

This is supposed to be the easy part, that's what they told him with their easy smiles and false reassurances ("it's _nothing_ , some of my patients even _sleep_ through it"). Sleep? Through this? Maybe they were already dead and no one noticed, is there anyone in the room with him or even monitoring him, all he can see is the curved metal inches above his nose, all he can hear is the rhythmic crashing and thumping of the machine right over his Bon Jovi CD. He squirms, seeking a more comfortable position and then realizes someone _is_ watching as a painfully loud voice overrides the music in his ears.

"Mr. Williams? That last set was blurry because you moved. I have to redo them, please keep perfectly still this time."

Great, so now he gets to spend even more time in here. He pictures Steve out in the waiting room fidgeting, checking his watch, itching to get back into the action and really, that's the only good thing about this, knowing that his partner is also suffering in some small way.

He closes his eyes and tries to summon Grace's face again but the image keeps slipping away beneath the buzzing and grinding and clanging. His shoulder's on fire and he's trapped in a box with a jackhammer behind his head. No amount of distraction can change that.

"Mr. Williams, you moved again. You must hold still." The disembodied voice sounds scolding and faintly disappointed. Maybe she's impatient for some _loco moko_ herself.

The problem is there's no way to prepare yourself for this no matter what they say, unless of course you're superhuman like Steve who probably trained for exactly this scenario in the SEALs. Danny needs a different approach.

What had Chin said? Something about meditating to calm your mind, letting your awareness float until you find your focus and inner peace. Go to your happy place.

Whatever, he'll give it a shot.

After another series of clicks and taps there's a lull and the noise fades to a soft _whoosh_ like surf breaking offshore. He grabs at that thought and follows it, imagining himself standing on a wide, empty beach, toes digging into the warm sand, the midday sun burning hot on his bare shoulders and the breeze blowing cool in his face. Only the calls of the gulls skimming over the surface of the water break the silence.

The ocean is so many shades of turquoise he can't count them, frothing white at the shoreline and fading into a deep blue toward the horizon. He synchs his breathing to the ebb and flow of the waves lapping at his feet— _in-out, in-out, in-out—_ and feels the tension melt away. Off to his right a short pier juts out past a jumble of boulders and he realizes with a flash where he is just as he hears his name.

"Hey Danny," Steve calls from behind him then materializes at his side with a lazy grin and two opened Longboards. Danny takes one and tips it back, the lager sliding down cool and easy, watching out of the corner of his eye as Steve does the same, his full lips wrapped around the neck of the bottle, the long, lean column of his throat undulating as he swallows. He's wet from a swim, hair curled at the nape, droplets of water peppering his chest and flowing in rivulets down his ripped abs before disappearing beneath the waistband of the boardshorts hanging low on his hips and clinging to his muscled thighs.

Danny looks back up and Steve is right there, the bottle gone now and the smile replaced by something feral, staring at him with such intensity that chills run down his spine and heat rushes to his face. He closes his eyes against a wave of dizziness, senses a shadow passing over him and when he opens them again he's sitting in the beach chair, the worn wood scratchy against his skin and the roar of the surf pounding in his ears.

Steve is a dark shape blocking the sun as he leans in and braces his hands against the chair, his arms bracketing Danny on either side and his face only inches away, so close that Danny catches the puffs of exhaled breaths before the rising wind snatches them away. He reaches up and traces the curve of ink over one corded bicep with the pads of his fingers, the seawater shockingly cold against the heat of Steve's skin, follows the swirling design up to the shoulder, then trails down and across the broad chest. Steve makes a noise halfway between a gasp and a moan, charging Danny's entire nervous system with electricity and jolting his heart into a stuttering rhythm.

His lips feel dry and he licks them, tasting salt, then closes his eyes again as Steve's hands shift to his shoulders, squeezing and then tugging him forward until he's sliding down the chair, the sharp front edge digging into his butt, then farther still, his heels carving a path through the sand, flying through the air and into Steve's....

"Mr. Williams? _Mr. Williams_. You're all done."

He opens his eyes and squints against the overhead lights, his heart rate slowing with each breath of the dry sterile air. The bored-looking MRI tech is standing over him, clipboard in hand, clearly eager for him to get moving so she can leave. He pulls off the headphones, swings his legs over the side and stands, steadying himself against a wave of dizziness. His gown is damp with sweat and his skin clammy. He licks his lips and tastes salt.

"Here are your clothes and your discharge packet. You can change in there and then you're free to go." She hands him a bag and a sheaf of papers and points him to a cubicle in the back. He quickly dresses and finds his way out to the waiting room.

As soon as he steps through the door Steve flashes him a grin and he's surprised by the relief he feels. Steve is sprawled across a cushioned chair with a magazine in his lap, long legs splayed out in front of him, looking completely relaxed even though Danny's over one hour late. It isn't fair.

"Everything good?"

"Yep. Let's go."

Steve tosses away the magazine and walks to his side, then examines his face, frowning. "You sure? You look a little funny."

"Funny?" He shakes his head. "Nothing funny about any of this, believe me."

"Okay, it's just..." Steve steps closer, gently grasps his chin and tilts his head up. "Your pupils are dilated and you're all flushed. Drugs finally kick in?"

"Yeah, that's right, now can we get out of here?" He shakes off Steve's hand and stalks to the exit, ashamed of the irritation in his voice but really, he needs to leave _now_.

"Fine, but you're a terrible patient, you know that?"

"And you're no doctor." Danny pushes through the door and steps outside, blinking against the bright sunlight. Somehow it seems wrong to see a parking lot instead of a beach.

Steve comes up on his good side and pats him on the shoulder, then curves a hand around the back of his neck and gently squeezes. "Maybe not, but if you feel that bad you should go straight to bed."

The heat rising off the asphalt is making him dizzy again. He closes his eyes and takes a deep, cleansing breath. When he opens them Steve is standing right in front of him, gazing down with affectionate concern, long and lean and silhouetted against the blue sky like someone's idea of a fantasy come to life.

Which, come to think of it, maybe he is.

"That's an excellent idea," Danny says with a grin, waiting until Steve relaxes and returns the smile. "Take me home."

And the funny thing is, his shoulder doesn't even hurt anymore. He'll have to remember to thank Chin for that in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Title courtesy of Bon Jovi.


End file.
